House of Ghosts (34 page)

Mel Katz pounded the table laughing at one of Bud Kerrigan’s jokes. The undertaker had snuck into Forno’s through the service entrance in the alley behind the restaurant. “Joe’s a man of his word. He said that he would show, and by God he did,” Kerrigan said, squeezing Joe around the shoulders. “I’ve got to grab a bite and scoot. I have a client waiting in destiny’s transporter.”

“Ask Carmine for a doggy bag,” Joe quipped. He re-took the chair next to Mel, sliding the five-iron under the table. Joe relished the lasagna, dipping a piece of bread into the extra sauce he scrapped from the pan. “How’s Kope and Naomi?” he asked Mel.

Mel shook his head. “My aunt is holding her own, but my uncle is failing fast. His eyesight is worse. They’re both eighty-one, I suppose it could be worse.”

“He didn’t do too bad the last time we played golf,” Joe said.

“We’ve got to start the meeting,” Mel said, looking toward Barry Martinson pointing to his watch. Martinson gave the thumbs up. “That was over a year ago, before you turned into a hermit.”

“I have to get off my butt and get over for a visit,” Joe said.

“They’ll be back in two days. Went to D.C. to visit my cousin,” Mel said, again signaling Martinson to begin the meeting.

Barry Martinson stood, ringing his water glass with a spoon. “I’d like to introduce Lester Hargrove…”

“Excuse! Excuse!” Carmine Forno called, pushing a cart with two trays of fluted champagne glasses onto the dance floor. He took two glasses from the tray, handing one to Joe. “In honor of Lieutenant Joe coming back from the dead!” They clinked glasses, each downing the Asti Spumante. “Everybody, helpa yourselves.”

Carmine shook hands with Joe, spun on his heels and returned to the kitchen. Toasts and a chorus of
He’s a Jolly Good Fellow
ended with Joe taking a bow. Martinson grasped the back of his chair. “It is my pleasure to introduce Lester Hargrove. Lester is…”

“And they say that being an asshole doesn’t pay,” Joe said to Mel. “They love me.”

“Thank you, Barry.” Hargrove cleared his throat three times. “Estate planning should begin…”

Joe turned to Mel. “Lester, the molester. I don’t like the looks of him.”

“Shut up,” Mel whispered. “I can’t concentrate on what Hargrove is talking about.”

Knives and forks rattled in the background. The lights were dimmed. “The graph on the left denotes the taxation rate in 1975. On the right is the current rate. It is easy…,” Hargrove droned on.

Joe checked his watch—
twenty more minutes of Hell
. “Kope and Naomi graduated from N.Y.U.,” he said to Mel. “Do you know what year?”

“1941. No it was ’42. My aunt was looking at her yearbook the last time I was over,” Mel said. “The man is trying to give a presentation. Are you taking your medication?”

Hargrove’s
Power Point
presentation slides flashed on the wall. A kaleidoscope of facts, figures, charts and pie grafts were highlighted by the tax attorney’s laser pointer. Joe watched the heads bobbing, not knowing if it was the champaign or Hargrove’s monotone. Mercifully, the lights were raised. The guest of honor answered several softball questions and received a polite round of applause.

“I need to talk to Hargrove,” Joe said.

“I’m going to scoot. If you’re served, call me,” Mel was up an off.

Joe retrieved the five-iron, making his way between well-wishers to Hargrove who was dismantling the projector. “Very informative, Mr. Hargrove,” Joe said. “I wish I had this information years ago.”

Hargrove unplugged the projector. “It’s never too late to make a proper plan,” he said with satisfaction.

“Like Preston Swedge?” Joe asked with a faint smile.

Hargrove wound the wire from the laptop to the projector around his hand. Grimacing, he asked, “What is it you’re asking?”

Joe studied Hargrove’s face. The counselor had a strange habit of scrunching his face. Joe couldn’t decide if Hargrove was constipated or hadn’t been laid in years. “Preston began donating money to the Westfield temple in 1960 around the time of the Jewish high holidays. I’m curious to know why.”

Closing the laptop, Hargrove collected his notes. “I was a neophyte in practice when Mr. Swedge walked into my office. I was glad for the work. He paid my fee. I didn’t ask his motivation.”

Joe placed the five-iron under his arm. “Anyone who has lived forty years in town knows Preston’s reputation. It never crossed your mind that his yearly donation ran opposite to his history?”

Hargrove shifted uneasily from foot to foot, fiddling with his pocket watch. “No. Why don’t you ask Barry?”

Martinson caught the tail end of the discussion. “What should I be asked?” He moved around the table to stand next to Joe.

“Why did Preston Swedge make a yearly donation to the temple?” Joe wasn’t smiling.

Martinson ran his hands over Joe’s shoulders then down the sleeves. “The funds were deposited into the rabbi’s discretionary fund. It was between Bernie
Balaban and Mr. Swedge. Nothing stays a secret for ever, something to do with Adolf Eichmann and the Holocaust. I didn’t push it. It isn’t everyday that a gentile becomes a major benefactor of a Jewish organization.”

Hargrove strapped his paraphernalia to a small luggage cart. “Thanks for the opportunity Barry. Mr. Henderson, if you would like a consultation for your estate needs, please call.” He handed Joe his business card.

Martinson scrutinized Joe’s sport jacket. “I could swear I sold this jacket to a very sexy lady married to a very wealthy gentleman.”

Joe wanted to smack himself in the head with the five-iron for wearing Alenia’s gift. “I bought this at one of the discount places on the highway. Cost me a hundred bucks.”

“It’s an eight hundred dollar item,” Martinson said. “You’re a lucky guy.”

“In more ways than one,” Joe said. His cell phone chimed.

“Jozef!” Alenia screeched. “Someone tried to break in!”

“Your house?”

“No! Your house. A big man was looking in from door to the deck,” she said with terror in her voice. “The dog scared him off.”

“Did you call the police?”

“You’re the police. Come soon.”

JOE POUNDED PRESTON’S FAKE SECURITY COMPANY monitoring sign into the grass at the base of the front steps. He knew it was meaningless— only a perp on crack with an I.Q. of 35 would fall for it.

Alenia’s description of the would-be intruder matched Ed Stovall’s snooper around the Swedge place on three points—tall, hulking, and gray hair, but didn’t move like an old man. Alenia threw in one tidbit: his eyes. There was something “bad” about them, the way he looked at her gave her the “kureeps.” Joe pointed out that she was lucky, considering a “bad” man was looking at a very well-endowed naked lady in search of her brassiere.

Joe had no doubt the guy was casing the house and the combination of Alenia’s screaming and Roxy’s barking drove him off. There had been a rash of break-ins around town with three in the area just the last week. He wondered what asshole would want to boost a cop’s house, then again, nothing would be a surprise.

Joe slid behind the wheel of the Volvo and tossed directions downloaded from the Web on the passenger seat. The widow of Clark Johnson sounded guarded when Joe asked if she had a few minutes time, that he was an author researching material for a book on the isolationist movement prior to America’s entry into World War Two. He had known Preston Swedge for twenty years and they also shared a mutual friend—James Miller. The mention of Miller’s name was the secret word. “Two o’clock will be fine,” Gloria said. “I hope you like chocolate chip cookies. I made a fresh batch this morning.”

Joe looked at every Japanese white compact car as he wound his way through the center of town and south toward U.S. Highway 1—young women with kids in car seats, grandmas, and a priest, but no gray haired old “bad” man.

He tried to imagine what the highway looked like from the rear seat of Herbert Swedge’s Packard. The entire Route 1 corridor was now condominiums, strip malls and large industrial parks, not the cornfields, vegetable and dairy farms of 1938 that made New Jersey the “Garden State.”

Bumper to bumper traffic lengthened the forty minute trip to an hour and a half. He was running fifteen minutes behind schedule. Joe followed the signs for Princeton, taking the exit onto Harrison Street. Two lanes widened to four. A granite pointed bridge offered panoramic views of the Millstone River where the Princeton University sculling team had four boats practicing. He chuckled at the thought of his father who took him to Princeton basketball games hoping his son would take the academic path and break the family tradition of the N.Y.P.D. When Joe’s S.A.T. scores squeaked above the bowling average of the older Henderson, talk of becoming a Princeton Tiger ceased.

Joe checked the directions—right on Nassau Street, three blocks, left on Cedar. He clicked the turn signal, breaking for a red light at the Nassau intersection. The main drag through the borough was packed with traffic heading from the shopping district. Joe lit a cigarette, second guessing his choice of using an author for his cover story. Bluffing wasn’t his strong suit. His paltry poker winnings at the weekly game he attended before being shot were proof.

The light cycled twice before the clog cleared. Joe maneuvered around a box truck jutting into the lane. A yellow cab turned left onto Cedar Lane, stopping to discharge its fare. A middle age man with a large black hat and black suit got out. Adjusting his
yarmulke
, he walked with a slouch toward the main entrance of the Jewish Center of Princeton. Joe chuckled to himself—he’d have to ask Gloria Johnson if the building was built before or after her anti-Semitic husband died.

225 Cedar Lane was a stately, white brick, Georgian colonial. Plants of every description provided an ever changing pallet of fall color against a lawn manicured to perfection. Joe parked in the vacant driveway, taking a curved path of crimson pavers to a fieldstone landing.

Tapping a heavy brass knocker mounted on the front door painted the same color as the walk’s pavers produced no immediate response. Slowly, the door opened revealing a lady no taller than Ruth Ritchie dressed in a tight fitting white turtleneck sweater and a pair of black designer jeans. Joe thought of the cheerleader who met Clark Johnson the night Orson Wells scared the bejesus out of the American public with his
War of the Worlds
radio broadcast. All she was lacking was a pair of pompoms. Her face bore deep creases from sixty years of worshipping the sun. Cornflower-blue eyes and gray flecked blonde hair cut in a pageboy completed the package. “Mrs. Johnson, I’m sorry I’m late.”

“Don’t be silly,” Gloria Johnson said in a smoky voice. “Mr. Henderson, come in.”

Joe leaned heavily on the five-iron crossing the threshold. Driving around Westfield made his leg ache. Ninety minutes of stop and go traffic caused severe
calf pain and loss of feeling in his foot. “Are you okay?” Gloria asked.

“Old war injury,” Joe said, taking in the décor. Hand printed wallpaper featuring falling leaves lined the entranceway. Birds of Paradise were arranged in a Kosta Boda glass vase on an heirloom mission red oak console table. An ensemble of family pictures was clustered around the departed Clark. He stole a look at picture of a young boy, five or six, sitting on Clark’s lap. There was no question Clark was the father.

“I hope you don’t mind the kitchen,” Gloria said, leading the way. The aroma of brewed coffee wafted down the hallway.

Joe peaked into the formal dining room. Antiques were not his forte, but he recognized money when he saw it. The house was furnished with a taste he hadn’t seen except for when he couldn’t sleep, passing the early morning hours watching the decorating channels on the cable.

Giant mums in a large crystal vase were on the kitchen’s center island. Sea island green granite countertops, stainless steel appliances, and rosewood raised panel cabinets highlighted the updated kitchen. Joe did the math—it was a hundred grand renovation if it cost a nickel. The woman had been a widow for forty years. He wondered where the money flowed from.

“Can I get you some coffee?” Gloria asked, retrieving two large hand-painted mugs, each with the scene of the sun setting on Maui. “It’s fresh.”

“Perfect,” Joe replied, tempted to ask for extra cream and a dose or two of Vicodin. His leg was hurting worse than it had in months. Joe took a seat at an antique country table.

Gloria placed a mug and a tray of the promised chocolate chip cookies and a pitcher of cream before Joe. “Mr. Henderson,” she said. “sugar is in the bowl.”

“All my friends call me Joe, Mrs. Johnson,” he said, pouring a shot of cream into his coffee.

“Mrs. Johnson was my mother in law. I’m Gloria.” she said, removing a sterling monogrammed silver cigarette case from her handbag on the counter. “I’m glad to hear Reverend Miller is on the mend.” She lit a cigarette with a matching silver lighter.

“I saw him two days ago, he looks good for what he’s gone through.” Joe retrieved a Marlboro from the inside pocket of his sport jacket.

Gloria took a seat at the table. “I lost contact with Preston after Millie died.”

“I understand she was a wonderful person,” Joe said, taking a sip of coffee. “He spoke highly of you and told me more than once how much he missed you.”

Gloria didn’t comment on Joe’s fabrication. She looked Joe squarely in the eye, taking a long drag on the cigarette. “Joe, I’m not familiar with your work.”

Not losing her glare, he responded, “I freelance for a handful of magazines. Maybe you saw the piece I did in
American Warrior
last month.”

“Sounds like Tolstoy,” Gloria jibed. “Tell me the premise of your book.”

“America was deeply divided before World War Two. One camp was itching to join the fray, the other to stay out.”

“Those against going to war were no less patriotic, even though that’s how they were portrayed,” Gloria said, moving a cut-crystal ashtray to the middle of the table.